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A nyårsdikt by Linnea Axelsson: The new year

At dawn, I go up on my mountains

and I sit on a stone

Stray fingers groping at the

What have I done, of all days

Where should I stay,

with a child to give roots to the

I hear the bear behind my back,

big and heavy

She is brown and we have seen the past

the Framework fathoms me and

the claws cut into my flesh,

Drag me by the hair, piece of me

in the head

so the juice runs out

Together we can

cleave me in the midst,

I want to have it done

the Round bear, great tracks

go back to the klyftans bed

I will go further this way

You are not human

and good, it is

Keep to your sun

I have no ide

out in

but the hand sniffs

Ten little fingers

as the father in the world,

plait the me on

do I Need to die


Must the world

really wiped out first.


Time, arise in me

in the body, as they age,

with the scars of a birth

and the dog I'm scared

that cut in my arm

once on the earth,

which is also aging

the Air is cold

I feel how the ground,

when it thawed again

the pacific to develop

art after art,

as if it read

a great story

the Figures

carved in sand and ice

and that can only be solved

from someone's internal


and through us the language

to the earth to speak

Think and speak the

the time is

before the glesnat

so much so that it


I put my hand in my pocket

and touch the seven of diamonds

someone gave me yesterday

I want to dig them down

but the ground is hard

do not Search treatment

in the poem, the says the bear

search the world

But not the

in each other, I will answer

they are not in each other

When the bells are struck

I'll also listen for

my dead siblings

For that I once read

to the past

the thought that the barrier

among the living

and the dead burst

on new year's eve,

then the time has been suspended

and can start

I think not

on the transmigration,

I is not linked

I believe in care

and it care create

Those who have not yet been born

but to continue here

no power

If no one gives them

the power

- imagine

to them

the Trees thickens

down the slope, when I

will receive them

There is a

great tit on the branch

and look me in the eyes,

as with anyone's glance

Below the forest

the roads

whose beginning and end

I can't see

And maybe

also the end

that is beautiful,

now, if it is an end

I go in

Might hear

already at the beginning of the year

of poetry

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